It's tough being...

9:53 p.m.: I have been awake since eight o'clock yesterday morning. As a recent college graduate I find myself in a spinning world of sorts. Left in an economy run by the next "biggest loser" (and I don't mean of any weight) I have no career, money, food, or means to change it. When I am not pounding magic into the ground of Anaheim I am usually found here, living in my parents house on the brink of insanity attempting to find that direction we were pushed out of college's safe-house and in to.

I realized how depressing it was when I could not fall asleep for a 5 a.m wake up.

My small excuse for living quarters is a scene directly out of the hoarding closet of Sherlock Holmes. Clothes, clean and dirty, are placed in their respective places among a chest and some closet space. I have books on three masses of shelving that I wouldn't even dare to count, most of them open to recent readings. Others sit on lay away if I need a good pick-me-up. Those books I usually keep close to the whiskey.

I have become obsessed with the coming of Fall. I blame this obsession on the boredom and depravity of action my life has collected. It also takes my mind off of the constant strain of attempting to organize my thoughts into enough plotted paragraphs that any half-wit, tan model would even be interested in reading. Now that I mention that, better shoot for at least sorority girls, their vocabulary and ability to retain information stands a tidge higher.

Anyway, between thinking about fall fashion and dreading my awaited work day I missed sleep all together. Instead I found myself slapped together at 5:15 with a scruffed side braid and a wrinkled uniform as I tried to make sense of the bagel and tofu-cream coming together to form breakfast.

My job comes hard enough when I am well rested and fed, let alone sleep deprived, bitter and in no mood to answer room 5423's complaint of there not being scented soap to freshen up with.

So I sat, in my brown cubicle waiting for the glamorous to awaken and cause my blackberry to scream with their inept demands and idiotic questioning. My coworkers, as usual, filled the room with their oddities and gossip, things I stopped attempting to befriend months ago. I sat there for nine hours journaling the random babble throughout my day in hopes of one day turning it all into a comedy the rest of the world can laugh with me at.

Until that day it is but me alone to suffer.

How is it people find fame? they are born with it, get naked for it, sell themselves for it, and on that rare occasion are discovered for it. Well since I have some form of intellect and dignity in the world I shall wait for the latter of the four.

For now I shall read a book, maybe watch a show and contemplate life as I most always do until I fall asleep and escape for a time being.

It'snow 10:18 p.m.

Pour myself a drink.


Lay my head in a book.


And think.

Rejecting Propriety

I had this imagination as a kid. Actually, many would say I still have it today, but a lot has changed in my elusive phenomena since the blissful days of youth. My imagination has become overrun with thoughts, no not thoughts, worries. I once to let my mind take me where it lead, never questioning or doubting anything I wrote or spoke. But as money became the parliament of my existence; bills, loans, even gas prices made work the main attraction of my spinning creative world. I pushed aside the stories and opinions that made my passions fun, I stopped writing.

About a month ago, a friend of mine made time out of his equally work-driven life to share a cup of coffee and toss around musings. As we conversed, the conversation itself began to spark a light in my self that had been dormant for so long. I realized as I indulged in my opinions and stories, that I felt no stress and for once contentment. He scolded me for neglecting my blog, for working too much, and for not being my smart-ass self. As simple and irrelevant as that sounds, the truth is my bitter work life had snuffed me out. I stopped being a smart, creative, ass; showing the harsh reality and mishaps of life to the faces of whomever I met.

I haven't felt like my light and adventurous self in months. As I approach a year of not doing anything for myself I am ashamed at where I have let my creativity go to; school/my work and the abuse it sucked from me. Battling with the future, I refuse to do it anymore. I am not going to live or write for the corporate scum of our country. Little by little I will fill the pages of that Fleetwood Mac covered journal he gave me, and I will dissect every charachter and plot line that has been racing in my head for years.

stop worrying where to start, whom will care, will I fail or will I ever get everything settled into the perfect paragraph? who would read my stories? why do I even try? I'll never be as great as the literary heroes, what story to tell first?

Just begin.